Carrying A Memory

 

At 43, I carry the feeling of a small hand pressed against mine 17 years ago. I take this in the place of a secret, of a yearning, of an addiction, of a lie. Buried under the bowels of the heavy earth, the image will appear in my head, like a faithful ghost aged by the many years.         In this memory there is a sun that is still pouring its bright colors over the scenery. The streets are loud and active yet I am so absorbed in the feeling of a little hand grasping mine. I gaze down at the child to find a misalignment in the collar of his shirt and release those precious animate fingers to adjust it. Hurriedly, his hand jumps back into mine afraid of getting lost in the crowd of other hands on that busy day, on that busy streets. He is content again as he feels the tender stroke of his mother. I nurture and stroke the little hand as the wind quietly presses itself through. It is small, with wild fingers and skin of velvet. I hold it and the fingers so eagerly wish to grow beneath mine.         We walk a great distance, away from the noise of the honking cars and the heavy odors in restaurant corners, away from the crowds and the street vendors.         "Where are we going," the child asks repeatedly, puzzled by the nature of our unexpected walk.         "To a place with all the things you could ever want," I reply again and again in the same promisingly tone.         "Are we going… to… oh, I know the toy store,” he suggests using his wishful thinking.         "Be patient for a while," was my all I could say.          I hold his small hand as it grows heavier and heavier. His legs begin to tremble, but we walk and walk, hand in hand, until the day becomes dark, until the streets become unfamiliar.         I remember how I grab tighter so as to remember that touch for the years to come. I turn to face him, "Hey?" He responds quickly without the energy to look up, "Can we stop, can we take a break?" "Yes, but I think I dropped something important a few blocks back, wait for me here, okay?" I whisper encouragingly.         Without looking back I hold his hand a bit tighter, then let go. Walking swiftly, I count the steps that it takes before I am no longer a mother but a woman with a memory that will become 17 years old. I walk and walk, turning the corner leaving the child behind. Alone, with large watery eyes, the little boy watches as I disappear behind a building. At 43, I carry the feeling of a small hand pressed against mine 17 years ago. I take this in the place of a secret, of a yearning, of an addiction, of a lie. Buried under the bowels of the heavy earth, the image will appear in my head, like a faithful ghost aged by the many years.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

     

Reviews

[Jonathan Bryant Dean]

This is a sad story of remembrance. I like what you have described, and the plot is atrong. There are some small editing issues. I noted a few run-on sentences, but I do not feel the need to point those out.

I will bring your attention to a few phrases that I thought were incomplete:

It be content again as it feels the tender stroke of its mother. Now we will walk a distance this hand and I. "Where," the child asks very puzzled by the journey. -- Should there be another word between "It" and "be"? Maybe it would read better as, "It will be." And there should be a question mark after "Where."

Inside of this memory there is child's hand, there is my hand, and then there is a boy and his mother. -- There should be another word in the underlined phrase. Maybe "a" or "the."

This is not a slam by any means, just what I hope you will see as a helping hand.

JBD

[Adam Greenfield]

Wow, great piece. There was a depth of sadness that was very heartwrenching in the end. I know it was a good write because I actually flinched with sadness when I read the last part. You have quite a way with telling a story. I'd like to see a bit more details, like surroundings, but I don't think that them not being there so much took away from the story one bit. You still did an awesome job telling this.

[Kristin Brecoe]

wow... this seriously leave me pulled back. this is really intense. you are a talented writer. i would like to see more out of you soon.

you only have a few errors, they aren't too important. ill still point them out though.

That small little hand will feel frail from the distance[,] but I will hold all the more tighter as to remember that touch for the years to come.

coding.

this 17 year old memory and I[an extra space, an easy fix] .


=] nicely done again!

[Staci Brown]

[color=indigo]
surreal and poignant piece you've written here to share with readers... good job. as someone else stated you do have some sentence structure problems to address. also kill any adverbs when you can as they have a tendency to slow the reader down. means you have to write more of course :)

if you want or need help editing let me know :)

faerie blessings...
[/color]

[tina edwards]

very intense and very sad story of abandonment but written excellently

[imm's place]

This is an incredible story you have shared. very sad and heartbreaking.you have expressed the emotions so intensely and well

[Kristina Moulaison]

This is profoundly moving and carries the ability to haunt the reader far into their dreams.

*Before I forget, near the end you say tighter when it looks like you mean to say tightly.

I hope you never stop writing. You have a uniquely intimate and powerful voice that resonates with a reader long after they have put down the story. Thanks for sharing this one.

[Yvonne Heidt]

I was going to try and write a really profound review - but I have to go wash my face now - it's full of tears.

Excellent.

[Pema Dorje]

J. Araujo this is a powerful story and well written. A couple of sentence structure places need tidying. You 'make' the reader feel anticipation, regret, and the complicated tradjedies of our little lives. Bravo ...

[Kevin D Lieby II]

yeoch. I'm glad that you specified that this is a fictional piece. Sadly, it's only fictional for some. i've spoken with people who have similar stories that are true. You've captured the essence of their regrets very well.